


Something Else To Be

by ysse_writes



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysse_writes/pseuds/ysse_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*NSYNC breaks up. Written for Saturn for the 2003 Don We Now Our Gay Apparel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Else To Be

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know them, don't own them, all lies.  
> 

I.

It’s early when the knock comes, far too early. You’re awake, but not in the mood, so you ignore it, but it keeps coming, patient and measured, almost strangely so. The hour would suggest an emergency, but there’s no urgency in the rhythm of the knocking, only perseverance.

“Go away,” you say. You’re JC Chasez; you get to say things like that.

“Mr. Chasez?” The accented voice at the other side replies, cultured and just this shy side of put-upon. “I apologize for disturbing you, sir, but you have a telegram and my instructions are to personally deliver it into your hands.”

A what? you think. In this day and age? Has to be a joke.

“Go away,” you say again, stronger this time, injecting a little 'supahstar' into your voice, something Justin had taught you, a tone that implied that people who did not do what you wanted them to do usually end up very _very_ sorry they didn’t. Where was Dre anyway? You booked the penthouse suite, with its private elevator, just so there was no chance of being disturbed. You took the phone off the hook for the same reason.

“Mr. Chasez,” the voice continued, implacably. “I was instructed to deliver this to you _immediately._ I was led to believe it’s something you have been waiting for.”

Waiting for? you think. What the -?

You hear Dre’s voice, calm and somber. “JC. JC, it’s from Chris.”

In your hand, the telegram weighs heavier than you would have believed.

A telegram. How archaic, how appropriate, how utterly Chris. The perfect medium for this message, you think, because nothing else would have made such an impact, would have commanded such attention. You remember when you were very young, how your parents reacted when one of these things came. Like everything stood still, like the world held its breath, like nothing would start again, nothing would be right, until you knew what message that piece of plastic contained.

You take a deep breath and rip the small packet open.

YOU WIN. STOP. ANNOUNCEMENT IN 2 WEEKS. STOP. BE READY. STOP.

CK

Three years and Chris hasn’t lost his affinity for words. He can be abrupt and concise or as verbose and long-winded as he chooses to be. He can get straight to the point in a mouthful of words, or lead you down a merry twisting path, dropping pieces of wit and wisdom like gems or breadcrumbs until you’re lost, until you've forgotten what you were talking about in the first place. You still envy him that, even though you think that in three years you’ve grown a lot more capable of saying the things you think were needed to be said. Maybe it’s because you don’t have him to cover for you now, don’t have anyone to speak for you other than yourself.

***You win. Announcement in two weeks. Be ready.***

Three years and you still understand him perfectly, even when others would suggest he was being cryptic.

***You win. Announcement in two weeks. Be ready.***

Three years.

Three years and it’s finally over.

 

 

Your house in Orlando has never seemed so dark, so lonely. You haven’t been here in more than a year, preferring the house in LA. This one has echoes, phantoms, shadows; imprints you can’t get rid of no matter how hard or how many times you try and scrub them clean.

Three years and you still don’t sleep alone, you can still feel him sleeping beside you, hear him breathing. You still smell him on your bed sheets instead of roses, or lavender, or whatever fabric softener your housekeeper used. Three years and you can still only sleep on one side of the bed.

Three years and you still feel like weeping every morning that you open your eyes and realize that he’s not really there. The first ten seconds is always a shock. Used to be you’d just lie there stunned until the pain faded away or something – a knock on the door, a phone call, Byron barking at the cat, anything – jolted you out of that stupor. Three years and you’ve learned to ignore it, work through it. You’ve learned not to indulge, not to bury your head down under the pillow and hide from the light. These days you jump out of bed like it would eat you if you stayed one second longer than was necessary. It’s funny, really, quite unlike how you used to be. That’s okay, though, no one teases you about it.

There’s no one around to.

You call up Kevin, because he’d mentioned a trip here just a few days ago and you know he’s in town.

“Dude,” Kevin says, answering the phone almost immediately. “Hey, how are you? Look, I can’t talk long but I’ll call you later, okay?” You hear someone else’s voice in the background, someone else’s muffled reply. "Oh, and hey, we’re doing a club thing in LA next week, Howie says you should come with.”

“Actually," you say, “I’m in Orlando.” You clear your throat, a little embarrassed to be asking. “Could you come over? There’s news and... I don’t want to be alone, but I’m not really up to going out. ”

“Sure,” he agrees, easily enough. “You at your house? I’ll come over around nine, bring Chinese.”

How ironic, you think, that Kevin is the one you call now. You're still not completely used to the fact that you _can_ call him. If someone had told you this three years ago you would have laughed in their face. Forget kindness and good manners, you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself.

Three years and you’re still not used it. To being without them, to being alone. But you walk through it, you carry on. You have no choice. This is your life now. This is how it is.

And you have no one to blame but yourself.

 

II.

You’ve known Joey forever, longer than you’ve known Justin. You’ve loved Joey forever, probably from the day you first met. It was almost like imprinting, really. You came to Orlando and met him and it was like you never saw anyone else after that. He was your first friend, your first love, your first everything. The falling in love part had been so easy, you have to wonder now if that’s why the rest of it had been so hard. You don’t understood why it took so long, why you had to go away to LA and come back, why you had to be in *NSYNC and in Europe before you could tell him. You don’t understand why he just couldn’t be yours, the way you were always his. You still don’t understand why he just couldn’t love you the way you loved him.

You remember a day in Germany, almost a decade ago, when you all sat around drunk in your hotel room and confessed your ‘impossible dreams.’

*NSYNC had been your impossible dream. You knew people were rarely given a second chance in this business, no matter hard they worked, no matter how talented they were. You’d proved that in LA, where everything you’d ever loved about the business got somehow warped and twisted. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that you’d already had your shot, your time in the spotlight. Maybe it was time to forget it, go back to school, get that architectural degree like you’d always planned. But then Justin called and you met Chris and it suddenly seemed a done deal. There was just this energy that called out to you, that pulled you together, that said it was right, that was where you belonged. Joey appeared, suddenly, and it all became so clear to you why. You’ve known Joey forever. Loved Joey forever. You knew then that *NSYNC was your second chance. With the music, with Joey. And you were right.

You broke up with Joey in the middle of the Celebrity tour. When you told him it was over, he didn’t ask why, didn’t make any protests. He just looked at you, confused, then asked, “Is this what you want?” When you said yes he nodded once, then went away. There was no discussion, no begging or pleading. You weren’t really expecting hysterics, but you thought he’d be upset, even just a little bit. After all, you’ve been together, on and off, for the greater part of a decade. Since *NSYNC first got started, since Germany. That warranted a few tears, a few protestations, didn’t it? You’d always suspected that he didn’t quite feel for you with the same intensity you felt for him, but the total lack of emotion seemed a little callous. It proved your point, though.

Joey didn’t protest when you broke up with him, didn’t mourn your leaving. Even after you decided that leaving him wasn’t enough, that you had to leave *NSYNC altogether, he still didn’t blink. He turned around and made movies, conquered Broadway, made jokes, went to parties, wooed women. You weren’t the only one surprised when he revealed he proposed to his girlfriend, the mother of his child, but you decided that actually made sense. Joey’s dream was to act and sing and have a family of his own. Maybe this was what he’d been waiting for all along.

Through the years you never minded all the women. You knew how he was, how he loved everyone, how he had this almost preternatural impulse to make people feel good about themselves, to make them happy. And he cared for those women, equally, never giving any one any more attention than the next. He never loved any of them. Until Kelly. Until Bree.

You just didn’t know that, as far as that went, you weren’t any higher up on the food chain.

You once said that Joey’s smile was like sunshine, unstoppable, inextinguishable, that nothing could rock it or make it falter. It was cheesy and you were possibly under the influence of sex and alcohol, but you meant it. You never thought it would hurt so much to be proven right. To know for certain you couldn’t touch it, take it away. To know without a doubt that you couldn’t reach that deep.

 

  
Breaking up *NSYNC wasn’t so easy. You were all for a clean break, quitting cold turkey, but Chris, Lance, and Justin weren’t as accommodating as Joey. They didn’t want to stop, weren’t ready to end things, couldn’t even fathom why you would think of such a thing. You reminded them that you had always said *NSYNC would stop existing the minute one of you wanted to stop, when things stopped being fun. You conveniently forgot about another promise you’d made, insisted that you were tired of being one of five, tired of being in a group, tired of always having to share the spotlight, and that you wanted out. You knew they weren’t good enough reasons, didn’t sound very convincing, but it was all you had. You still remember the look on Chris’ face when you told them you’d taken the boyband thing as far as it could go anyway. “We can’t get bigger than we already are,” you’d said. “Not as *NSYNC, anyway. It’s time we found out what else is out there.” At the time, it sounded as good as an excuse as any.

You knew you were hurting them but were hurting too much yourself to care.

It would have been easier, maybe, if you’d been a better liar. If you could have invented a better reason, if you could have pretended that you really did want something else. Wanted something that wasn’t *NSYNC, wanted something *NSYNC couldn’t give you. The truth was there wasn’t anything else. The truth was you didn’t _want_ anything else, you just didn’t want _this._ You didn’t want to have to look at Joey everyday, especially when you were so miserable and he was so happy.

They screamed at you, whined, begged, threatened. At least Chris, Lance and Justin did. When that didn’t work they threw numbers at you, legalese jargon, fucking market reports. They mentioned contracts, quoted responsibilities, showed you financial reports. Once the shouting was done with, Johnny suggested a compromise. You’d all been talking about taking some time off anyway, take a little break. This would be the perfect time, he said. You could take a hiatus. Maybe a year. You all had things you'd been talking about for years. You could spend this time to pursue other things, try on other hats, be something else.

They called it a hiatus because they thought that was it was. That you just needed a break, needed to be away from them for a while. It was easier to let them think that. You’re all stubborn; you all have a reputation for getting what you want. They agreed to the break because they thought that in time they could change your mind. You agreed because you knew they couldn’t.

You let the rest of them do all the talking, all the protestations against the rumours of a break-up, all the reassurances that *NSYNC was still together and due back into the studio soon. You let them play up Justin’s album, let them let him release one single after another, let them let him go on a club run and then an extended world tour. When people started describing Justin as ‘the former lead singer of *NSYNC’ you didn’t even flinch, even though you don’t exactly know which part of that made you want to. You let them delay production of your album, delay the release, delay your tour, because you knew it was just was just an excuse, that they were just playing for time. When they started talk about Justin’s second album before you’d even released your first, you knew they were waiting for you to react, for you to make a noise. To prove you were peeved, that you still cared about your career, for you to make demands. You let them do what they wanted and quietly went on doing your thing; writing your songs, making your music.

They thought they could wear you down. You knew you could outwait, outstare them all.

They thought you were weakening when you agreed to one more album. The truth was you agreed because everyone kept saying ’one more album’ and you gave them what this one thing so they’d stop. Technology was on your side on this. You recorded all your parts alone, and no one could tell the difference. The only time you all actually needed to come in was for the promo shots, and even though every moment of it hurt, even though each smile was a struggle, you forced yourself to focus and managed to get through them without breaking. By then you were scattered, all of you having so many projects, it was easy enough to explain why none of you ever stayed very long, why the five of you were hardly ever in the same place together, why you never hung around together anymore. This excuse worked just as well when they asked why there wasn’t a tour to promote this album, why there were no live appearance for the rare specials and the award shows. You all had pat or pithy answers, the way you always have when dealing with questions you didn’t want to answer.

Three years and they’ve mostly stopped asking anyway.

You’re five strong-willed people who want different things and it came down to who wanted it the most, who could fight for it longest. Joey, Justin, Lance and Chris -- four of the strongest men you know, and you watched them fall, one by one, watched distantly as they gave up, surrendered, got out of Dodge.

You wonder how you’re going to do this, finally. What story they planned to tell, what explanation they planned to give. Three years of smoke and mirrors and making people believe. Were they now going to explain the trick or just bow and walk away gracefully?

Would the fans even care? Or have they given up, too? Would they still write you long letters avowing love, or would they just shrug their shoulders and go on with their lives, thinking it was about time you stopped pretending anyway? Would they miss you, plead for you to come back, or would they just tell you they hoped your decision made you happy and walk away, find something else--someone else--to love as soon as you were out of sight? Three years later will they still hear your voice late at night, cry themselves awake at the thought of you being gone?

You wish you could be angry but you can’t. You did this. You broke up with Joey, broke up the band, broke your promise. You are the asshole in this equation. So no, you don’t get to be angry. You don’t get to be hurt.

 

III.

You contemplate calling Justin to tell him you’re in Orlando, but you’re not sure if he knows already, if Chris had sent him a telegram, too, and you don’t want to be the one to tell him if he doesn’t. Besides, last you heard he was in Africa somewhere, shooting a video and building schools. You don’t want to disturb him; you figure if he doesn’t know now, he soon will and you’ll see him soon enough.

Justin is probably the biggest thing ever in the media these days. They still refer to him as an ex-boybander, but the term popstar is being used less and less frequently. It’s ironic that *NSYNC helped create the modern definition of pop music and now Justin is the one systematically tearing it down. Justin stopped being the prince of pop long ago. His title changes as often as the billboards promoting his work do, because no one can pin him down with a label for very long.

In Germany, Justin didn’t have any impossible dreams to confess. You suspect he’s never had any, couldn’t even imagine anything that would be beyond his reach. At the time, everything that ever stopped him from anything could be summed up in two words: too young.

Now there’s nothing stopping him at all.

These days, it’s Michael Jackson being compared to Justin, not the other way around. In all Ten Biggest Celebrities lists, he’s always in the top five. That’s if he wasn’t in the top three.

Justin is the only one who still actually talks to you, which is almost funny considering the press that had had you pitted against each other. Some enterprising people in PR had been eager enough to use that, to foster rumours of competition and resentment about ‘preferential’ treatment, fanning controversy about two major talents evolving in different ways, two leads being tired of sharing the spotlight and out to outdo the other.

If you really were going to break up, somebody figured, you might as well have a spectacularly dramatic reason to go along with it. You couldn't fault that thinking. It would have been so much easier if you could have just blamed it on Justin.

Truth is Justin had reacted pretty much like the others had. He hadn’t understood, but then none of them had. You’ve always made jokes about Justin’s temper tantrums, how no one ever tells Justin Timberlake ‘no.’

There’s a first for everything, though.

He didn’t talk to you for more than a year after that. You accepted this as your due, one of the forfeits you had to pay.

There was a time his hurt and anger showed, fueled his career. If his first album had been all about getting over Britney, his second had been all about getting over you, over *NSYNC. In the media he'd said stupid things about *NSYNC, statements about the music you’d created, the things you’d accomplished together, making statements about outgrowing things, moving past, growing up, growing beyond. Statements that had angered people, probably lost him fans. Kevin asked you once if it angered you as well, if it annoyed you that he was making *NSYNC sound so pedantic, so juvenile, when you’d tried so hard to be taken seriously. He looked very doubtful when you replied that you weren’t, that you knew this was just Justin’s way of distancing himself. It had been the same thing with Britney, all those years ago. Convincing himself it didn’t matter so much, he didn’t really love her so much, that she hadn’t actually been that wonderful, so he could let go.

Justin always made whatever emotion at the time work for him.

No one was more surprised when he just showed up unannounced in one of the clubs you were playing one night, just out of the blue. Later, in your dressing room, you’d found him waiting for you, systematically shredding the roses that Kevin had sent.

No one really knows how Justin sweet and unpredictable is, has always been. You didn’t even need to talk, he just told you, in all seriousness that next to Trace you are his oldest dearest friend (“Just don’t tell Chris,”) and “I’m tired of being mad at you.” You were friends again, just like that, like nothing had happened, and he’d dragged you out the door and made you buy him a late dinner.

You almost cried into your salad. Jesus Justin Fucking Timberlake.

You were worried that the others might get mad at him, but he just rolled his eyes at you, supremely confident in his charm and lovability and the unshakeable belief that no one could resist Justin Timberlake once he sets his mind to it.

You didn’t bother to remind him that belief was a fallacy, that you've already disproved it. Not then anyway.

Being friends again with Justin is infinitely better and worse than not being friends with Justin. You’re pathetically grateful you hadn’t lost all of them, that they didn’t all hate you after all. Justin is the most wonderful kind of gossip, the kind who doesn’t edit out the gory or embarrassing or hysterical, who doesn’t understand the acronym TMI or comprehend the concept of a secret. It doesn’t matter whether it was blood, sweat, tears or mucus, each detail is recounted in sometimes excruciating detail, and a ‘secret’ always meant ‘a secret to everyone else outside the group.’

For the most part, it doesn’t hurt to talk about them, to hear how they're doing from someone who knows them, someone who knows how to get beyond their public faces and answers. You love them, you miss them, you’re so proud of them it’s almost embarrassing. But there’s a physical ache in your chest each time Justin talks about you in the collective and you have to remind him that there’s no group anymore, each time need you need to stand your ground and reiterate that you’re not going to change your mind. You hate how stunned and confused he always looks, like he’d forgotten, or like you just informed him Santa Clause doesn’t really exist, but you refuse to bend.

He doesn’t want to go back to fighting so he usually leaves shortly after that, and you feel more alone than ever. It’s insane. Justin is maybe the biggest thing in the world and somehow he still wants this, wants you and the group back, just wants to be together and happy again. You wish you were strong enough to give him that but you can’t.

You wish you didn’t wish it was Joey sitting there instead of him, that it was Joey asking you back.

It’s stupid to wish that anyway. You were the one who walked away, the one who left. You don’t get to hope he’ll show up at your door, crying, begging for your forgiveness. You’re not the one who gets to take anyone back.

You knew Justin had given up when he stopped talking about it, stopped being so defensive about *NSYNC. These days he speaks of *NSYNC so humbly, so gratefully, how you’re all, will always be, his brothers, no matter what. In your mind, you know you’ll never be as big, as successful as Justin, no matter what Kevin or the friends and fans who took your side and were loyal to you insist. But you think that’s okay. You don’t deserve to be anyway, you don’t have don’t have that kind of heart.

 

IV.

You don’t call Lance either. You can’t. Three years and these days Lance only talks to you in public, to keep up appearances, and only when he’s drunk. That’s the only way he can stand you now.

In some ways, Lance’s anger hurt the most. He wasn’t angry the way Chris was, all bewildered and frustrated, his open face unable to hide his unhappiness.

Lance’s anger is cold, freezing. Whenever your paths cross his face remains impassive, even pleasant, but his eyes are almost silver when he looks at you. His words are always precise, carefully chosen, words that upon cursory glance qualify as polite conversation, but have barbs that are designed specifically to seek out your vulnerable spots and draw blood. To the rest of them you may be a lost lamb, a black sheep, confused and misguided, but to Lance you are a traitor, a betrayer. Joey accepted, Justin got over it, and Chris remains confused, uncomprehending. Lance, however, is on guard against you, ready to protect himself and his remaining brothers from further hurt and betrayal. The only reason he never actually made his anger known you or publicly cut you was because he knew it would break Chris’ heart to have his brothers fighting.

At the start, Lance been the exact opposite of Justin. Where Justin had thrown tantrums, threatening to never speak to you again if you didn’t change your mind and take it back, Lance had constantly been trying to talk to you, calmly and rationally, trying to make you see reason. You always joked that that Lance could talk anyone into anything, that there wasn’t anyone he couldn’t convince to go along with what he wanted.

How ironic that you were the one taught him that there was always an exception.

Lance had never given up on anything. He didn’t give up in Germany when he had only days--weeks at the most--to catch up to four people who’d more or less known each other forever and been performing professionally for years. He didn’t give up when his heart started failing him and he he’d had to fight for every breath. And he didn’t give up when they turned him down for space for the third time. When no one even paid attention anymore.

Lance has never given up on anything, has never failed at anything that he set his mind into achieving.

Until you.

Three years and Lance has gone to space and back, a feat made even more impressive by the fact that he did it himself, funded his trip himself. There was still coverage, still a TV special, but he owned it all. It wasn’t later that you realized that everything else he’d ever done--the music, the businesses, all the wheeling and dealing--was all towards that one goal. You remembered all the evil overlord jokes and wondered if people found them so funny now. All those people who made fun of him having to eat their words, everyone who ever doubted swearing up and down that they always believed in him, always had faith that he’d make it.

Lance’s dream was Space, had always been. He had always loved music, it was a part of him as much as it was a part of any of you, but he had never really believed he’d go very far in that field. He worked his ass off for *NSYNC to prove he could do it, could make the grade, but if your paths had never crossed paths he could probably have been just as happy singing with some obscure barbershop quarter singing in malls on weekends. Back in Germany you’d had to prod and tease and tickle the confession out of him, he’d been so reserved and shy, had been so afraid you would think his dream was silly. Now the whole world knows and he’s strong enough to have the entire world looking at him and not cave under the weight of their judgment.

You remember the day he went up. The media had wanted to catch all of your reactions, putting you all in one place and filming everything but you'd all declined. Justin had told you that Chris was freaking out, making himself sick with both worry and excitement, and no way was he going to let anyone put a camera to his face and have a zillion people watch him break down. Or throw up. Justin had been at home, holding his mother’s hand, praying the entire time. Joey and Briahna had been in Moscow with Jim and Diane and Jesse for moral support. Even on TV, it was hard not to catch Briahna and Joey’s excitement, not to get caught up in their joy and pride. It was only later that you’d realized that Joey had been there for the rest of you, for the rest of the world, as much as he’d been there for Lance. It was hard to worry, impossible to think about anything going wrong, when father and daughter were both there, being so bouncy and giddy.

You spent the entire time being glued to the TV and crying your eyes out anyway.

You spent half of that wondering if Bree still remembered you, if she even still knew who you were, it had been so long.

The first shot of Lance looking out the porthole once the shuttle was in orbit was priceless. Nothing much impressed Lance anymore. When you’d traveled the world and rubbed elbows with royalty, when you’d had two hundred fifty thousand fans screaming your name on a daily basis, you can get pretty blasé about life in general. But the look on his face that day... You have a print of that moment, Lance looking out the porthole and knowing he was looking at a miracle. He had a written statement ready to be read, but when the time came he could only quote RCAF pilot John Gillespie Magee, Jr., who’d died in a plane crash at age 19. “The face of God,” he’d said, awe and wonder illuminating his face, the way Joey had looked the first time he’d seen and held Briahna. Even Diane Sawyer got breathless and weepy during the broadcast.

You wondered how many people, how many children, started dreaming about space that day.

Barbara Walters interviewed Lance for being one of the top newsmakers of the year. When asked the standard sexual orientation question, Lance calmly casually admitted to being bisexual, attracted to women but only ever been in love with men. When pressed for details, questioned about his ‘lack of openness,’ he explained that while he didn’t go out of his way to hide it, he didn’t really consider his relationships to be free game to the media and didn’t really believe in politicizing love or sexuality. He said the only way to eradicate prejudice was to recognize the differences, but to realize that they didn’t matter in the long run. That at the end of the day you had to prove yourself to yourself, not to other people, and as a person, a human being, not as heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual or even male. And that the same went for the people he chose to care about.

When asked if he was single, he’d smiled boyishly and shyly admitted to being ‘taken’ They'd cut to a shot of Jesse and Lance's family and you could have sworn the world actually stood still for that entire fifteen seconds. The verdict is still out on whether he won more hearts than he broke that day, if the squeals drowned out the moans.

You always knew that Lance was one of the most strong-willed amazing people you knew, but if he was impressive before that interview and admission gave him almost-godlike status. Some detractors complained, of course, about the usual things, about him not being an appropriate role model for the youth, some factions complaining that about him wasting opportunities not to take a stand and be a spokesman for a plethora of issues, but for the most part people applauded. You think Lance could run for president of the United States and win and it wouldn’t surprise anyone anymore. And no one would make a single joke.

You bumped into each other once, unplanned, accidentally, at a club. If he’d been cold before, he was positively glacial when he saw that you were with Kevin.

Lance was raised to be a gentleman. He’s never deliberately rude. He’s also usually more in control, always so prudent of the things he says, the things he reveals in public.

Then, though, he’d been too angry to be careful.

He surprised you when he suddenly blocked your way to the bar. “It’s not bad enough that you dumped Joey?” he’d demanded, lowly, coldly. “You have to sleep with the enemy now, too?” He probably would have said more, but Jesse had put a hand on Lance’s arm and said something that you couldn’t hear over the music.

You thought Jesse was going to succeed, was going to be able to pull Lance away without further incident, but at the last moment Lance turned to you, his eyes flashing. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, harshly. “Joey loves you.”

Of all the things he’d ever said, this one was the one that hurt. It angered you that he still believed that, after Kelly, after the proposal. “Joey loves everyone,” you said, the closest you’d come to telling the truth, and ended up being the one who walked away.

Again.

In the limo, on the way home, Kevin watched impassively as you emptied out the mini-bar. “He was drunk,” he told you, quietly. “He didn’t mean it.”

You didn’t answer him, because you both knew that Lance wasn’t and that Lance did.

Kevin was a good guy, but he was a stranger, really. It doesn’t matter how much time you’ve spent together or how much history you shared. Lance said he was the enemy.

Now you were, too.

 

V.

Chris has a new girlfriend. Well, not exactly new since they’d been ‘seeing each other’ (Chris-speak for 'shagging like crazy') a year, according to Justin. If not for Justin, you think, you’d be getting all your gossip from Teen People and the Enquirer. Justin says Chris met her at some political event, of all places, some fundraiser for some candidate. Chris had been getting more and more involved in politics lately and was seriously considering getting into public service. Apparently, Chris heard her muttering the words _‘farathooming thalldrap’_ when some aide began talking about how taking away single mother’s welfare benefits would discourage premarital sex and lessen unwanted pregnancies.

“ _'Farathooming’?_ ” you’d asked. _“’Thalldrap’?”_

“It’s supposed to be some alien language from some futuristic science fiction book,” Justin explained, looking just as bewildered as you. “He looked over and saw this girl in dreads and a nose ring defacing some of the political posters by letting kids use an ink pad to leave their palm prints all over the candidates’ faces. He grinned and told her, _‘onk, ooma,_ mustn’t grumble,’ and she laughed. Apparently, it was love at first sight.”

 _“‘Onk’?”_ you repeated, amused despite yourself. “Who _talks_ like that?”

“Chris and Leah, apparently. I think they were swear words and she was using them because there were kids around.” Justin shrugged. “She’s wacko, yo,” he continued, but he said it in away so that you knew she was perfect for Chris. “They, like, argue _all the time._ Once it was six hours on the merits or lack thereof of ‘Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,’ and whether or not Jet Li could kick Chow Yun Fat’s ass and vice-versa. They have recurring arguments about someone named Wong and Morgan and how wormholes are always so misused as a storytelling device. And don’t even get them started on politics, man. I have to, like, distract them with ice cream if I want them to stop.”

“You like her,” you’d guessed and you knew you were right when he rolled his eyes.

“As bad as that sounds? They’re worse when they’re _not_ arguing. And they never remember to lock the door.” He cringed. “Dude, they use _'voices.'_ ”

You laughed, thinking that as hilarious coming from the king of over-share.

Leah, Justin reports, is a case worker for abused children and a part-time teacher and you’d like her, too, you think, but you’re not sure. You’ve never met her.

You haven’t talked to Chris since Challenge, where, for the second year in a row you got ‘sunburned’ and spent most of the weekend in your hotel room. You still feel guilty about that. Chris had tried so hard to make it fun, make sure that you were all still friends, make sure the fans didn’t realize that something was wrong. And you’d tried, you had, but it had just been too hard. The only one who actually acted normal was Joey, and that only made things worse. Between you avoiding Joey, Lance snubbing you and Justin splitting his time between hovering worriedly over you and hovering worriedly over Chris, well, you were surprised the fans didn’t walk out and demand their money back.

When the ‘hiatus’ started, four of you scattered like feathers to the winds, with set destinations. You can recite it like a nursery rhyme. This little popstar went to Moscow. This little popstar went to New York. This little popstar went to LA. This little popstar went around the world. And this little popstar floundered around in an RV, wondering where the hell he’d gone wrong and why his brother popstars had gone and left him alone.

You wonder if FuMan was your fault, too. You remember him and Lance having long detailed discussions about business, Lance lecturing about how eight out of every ten new businesses failed within the first year. You remember Chris waving Lance’s concerns away. Chris had always been so careful and meticulous when it came to money and finances that you hadn’t been worried, either. You knew that Chris had been on top of everything, was too smart, remembered his deprived past too well, to ever drop the financial ball like that. You wonder if FuMan failed because Chris had been too busy worrying about you and the others to give it the attention it deserved. You wonder if that was why he’d kept moving for so long, kept traveling, why he tried his hand so many things and yet couldn’t seem to focus on any one of them. You wonder if the reason he couldn’t find something else to be was because he didn’t really want to.

Not that you blame him.

*NSYNC was Chris’ dream. Music and the his family were the main priorities in his life, the two things he loved most, barring none, and *NSYCN had given him both. He had long ago stopped trying to segregate what belonged where long ago.

Dani had broken up with Chris because he didn’t have time enough for the relationship to suit her. You thought that sucked, that she should have known that coming in.

When you and Joey had first gotten together Chris had freaked. Not because he was against the idea, not because he didn’t understand, but *NSYNC had been what was the most important. Because *NSYNC had to come first. You and Joey were both 19 and Chris knew that at that age hormones were at an all time high and emotions were always fragile. He didn’t think you could handle ‘a real relationship,’ on top of *NSYNC, on top of already being beaten down and worn to a frazzle by the schedule you kept, the demands of trying to make it. He said you were gambling not only with your own lives but with the lives of two under-aged boys who had trusted the three of you with their future.

*NSYNC came first, always.

You and Joey had sworn to Chris, to Justin and to Lance, that you would never let it become a problem. You promised you would never let it affect the group negatively, you would never let anything that happened between the two of you mess up the group.

When you left *NSYNC, that memory, that promise, had been ringing in your head, but you hadn’t cared.

Chris hadn’t been ready for it to end. None of you had been, really. But it had hit Chris the hardest, he had taken it the most personally. Growing up, he had almost killed himself taking care of his family, making sure they were safe and happy together, making sure that nobody could ever take his sisters away. You knew it was killing him now that he didn’t do so well with that when it came to his brothers.

Three years and you’ve all moved on. Except for Chris. All this time Chris had always believed it really was just a hiatus, that you all just needed to take a break and be alone, be just yourselves, be something else, for a while. All that time he’d been waiting for you to get tired of playing and to come home.

You take the telegram out of your pocket and read the message again.

Looks like he’s not waiting anymore.

 

VI.

Kevin brings Chinese, as promised, and he spends the first hour telling you stories about the shows they did during the last week, regaling you with anecdotes about Brian’s new daughter, and how Nick plans to buy a houseboat to be able to spend more time in the water. Kevin is inescapably, unapologetically, proud of his boys. You don’t mind. Despite everything, you’re the same way.

It doesn’t hurt you to hear these stories, not even when the characters of his stories interlapped with those that that used to fill yours. Privately you think any one of your guys would be more than a match for any or all of them, but you can’t deny that they’re still together and you’re not. It’s excruciating sometimes but you take it because Kevin is your friend and you know he doesn’t do it to torture you.

Maybe.

You still don’t quite understand why or how Kevin became such a part of your life. Not that he and his group haven’t always been there, in some form or another, since the beginning. Try as you might have to ignore them, to stay out of each other’s way, there’s just too much shared history there, too many overlaps in your worlds.

When Kevin showed up at your doorstep a few weeks after the Celebrity tour ended, you were more than a little suspicious. You’d stared at him through the screen doors, eyebrow raised and until he snorted, impatiently. “Just let me in, willya?”

You had to think about. You were pretty sure that wouldn’t be a good idea in any universe. Kevin, you thought, was the boyband version of S.E. Hinton’s Tim Shepard -- the meanest kid in a family of mean kids. Well, okay, Howie was actually nice, and Nick’s kinda sweet, and AJ can be a lot of fun and Brian’s never been anything but polite...

Kevin cleared his throat meaningfully, looking pointedly at the still-closed screen door.

“Why are you here?”

“We heard,” he replied. “Chris and Lance were in Howie’s club last night.”

“And you’ve come to gloat,” you guessed. Kevin always said that *NSYNC was a flash in the pan, that it would never last. Maybe he had come here to thank you for clearing the field, congratulate you for finally coming to your senses.

“I wish,” he said, sardonically. “I have to admit the temptation is great.” He sighed again. “But no,” he continued, grandly, with only a trace of irony in his voice, “I’m here in a gesture of support.”

“You’re kidding,” you replied.

He rolled his eyes. “Chasez, just let me in before some reporter gets a shot of this. I do have a reputation of hatred towards you to maintain.”

You thought about it some more then opened the door. “So, what, you picked the short straw?”

He shrugged. “Well, Howie’s on Chris’ side on this, obviously. It’s a whole alumnae thing; you can’t do anything about that. And the rest don’t want to be thought of as taking sides and have the others mad at them.”

“That leaves you,” you finished. “Hooray for me, how did I get so lucky?”

“Well, we figured I didn’t stand to lose anything. You all already hate me anyway.”

“We don’t hate you,” you protested, automatically.

He shrugged again. “Whatever, man. Doesn’t really matter to me if you do. But you guys have been pretty decent to mine on occasion... ” He meant AJ, you realized. “... and I appreciate that. And all said and done, my guys like you guys well enough.” He paused, as if embarrassed by the idea. “I’m just here to talk, okay?’’

You still had serious misgivings but to his credit, he never pressed for details, never asked you what had happened. He never even talked about Chris or Lance or Justin or Joey. To him, ‘the guys’ meant Brian, AJ, Howie and Nick. In some ways that was even worse. Hearing the pride in his voice, hearing the love. It reminded you of what you didn’t have anymore, what you’d walked away from.

You didn’t really understand why he came that first day, but you let him stay because you figured you deserved it, you deserved the punishment. You didn’t understand why he kept coming back, and why you kept letting him. What you understood was that you hadn’t realized you would need that, hadn’t realized that you were going to need a friend after you cut yourself off from your four best ones.

Chris said once that The Backstreet Boys were like *NSYNC’s cousins. Smug, annoying, always-in-your-face cousins who teased and mocked and insulted you till the cows came home, who beat you up at the slightest excuse and who made it their mission to make sure you generally had miserable lives. It’s always been that way, he says, that’s how cousins are. But at the end of the day no one, outside of your brothers, would ever come as close to understanding you. Because obnoxious or not you’re still family, you still all come from the same place.

In the beginning, Kevin seemed the farthest thing away from the guys, from Joey. You found that oddly comforting. He was so different from you, they all were. He’d tell you stories whose settings were somehow always familiar, always gave you a feeling of skewed déjà vu. It was like seeing a story unfold from the other side of the screen, a funhouse mirror’s reflection.

Gradually you saw past the surface differences and saw the likenesses. How he always looked out for everyone else, the way Chris did, ready to protect his friends from any and all dangers. You saw Justin in the slow smile, in the southern drawl, he way he spoke of his family. His eyes weren’t green the way Lance’s eyes were, but they could be just as somber and watchful, be just as playful and mischievous. And when he danced, he way he moved, so freely, almost instinctively, just like Joey.

That was maybe the most disturbing thing of all.

Three years and Backstreet has released two albums and had a very successful world tour, all while *NSYNC was still ‘on hiatus.’ You remember how that was like, having your group, your brothers, being in all of the magazines, all of the TV shows, all of the radio stations, all of the time. You could almost hate Kevin for that, but you can’t. You have only yourself to blame.

Three years and you and Kevin you have only talked about it once. It was after Howie had sent you a clipping of a particularly, you’d thought, amusing blind item. You forget the exact words of the article, but it had hinted at a sordid love triangle between two ‘on the outs’ boyband members whose break-up was responsible for delay in their ‘going back to work’ and the who were fighting due to a third person, an outsider. It shouldn’t have been funny, considering how close it had been to the truth, but it was. Kevin pretended to be shocked and offended, but he was laughing just as hard as you.

“Dude,” you’d gasped, “why does he think it’s us? Justin swears that Nick got drunk one night and blabbed that the reason AJ cancelled his wedding was because of Howie jumped him while he was being fitted for his tux.”

“Hah!” Kevin replied. “I _knew_ Joey grabbed my butt during that dance duel! 'My hand slipped,' my Aunt Fanny.”

“Yep, your Aunt Fanny,” you agreed, still laughing, the thought of Joey not hurting for once.

Kevin sighed, over-dramatically. “Kristin is going to be so pissed,” he mourned.

“Because her husband is suddenly embroiled in a scandalous three-way with two enemy ex-boybanders? Dude, you can always tell her that that you strung both me and Joe so along purposely, to break up *NSYNC. It was all in the line of duty, for the greater good of Backstreet.” You were amazed you could laugh at that, really.

Kevin snorted. “Oh, like she’ll believe _that._ No, she’s going to be pissed because she wasn’t mentioned. Hot boyband action, man, she’ll be mad she wasn’t a part of it.”

“Wouldn’t mention of a wife mess up the whole homosexual love triangle angle?” you asked.

“We could say she was holding the video camera.”

You’d laughed, but your amusement hadn’t lasted long. All the time you’d succeeded in avoiding the issue. Now that the door had been opened you knew you couldn’t close it again.

The laugh had been worth it, you thought. And the realization that the ground wouldn’t open up and swallow you at the mention of Joey’s name.

“You seemed happy,” Kevin said, quietly. “You and Joey, I mean.”

“We were,” you agreed. Because you were, almost ridiculously so, at least in the beginning.

That’s why it had hurt so much when you found out none of it was real.

“Then why?” Kevin asked, the first time he’d asked directly, ever. “What happened?”

You don’t know why you told him, why you told the truth when you couldn’t tell anyone. Not your family, not the guys, not even Joey. Maybe you decided it was time. Maybe you were just tired of lying.

“He didn’t love me,” you said, quietly, wryly. “He wasn’t in love with me.”

Kevin frowned, looking confused. “Of course he did,” Kevin said, sounding very definite. “You were together for five years.”

You shook your head. “You don’t understand,” you said. “Joey loved me, yes, but he wasn’t in love with me. You don’t know him. Joey is probably the most loving, most kind person in the world. He can’t stand to hurt people, especially not the ones he cares about.” You doubted Kevin would understand, doubted you could adequately explain, but he asked and maybe you wanted someone to understand. “He was with me because he knew _I_ was in love with _him_. Because he didn’t want to hurt me. Because he wanted to make me happy.”

“And that made you mad?” he asked.

You shook your head again. “He wanted to make me happy,” you repeated. ”How could I be mad at him for that?”

After dinner you show him the telegram you’d received. “So,” he says, somberly, after reading it, “what does it mean?”

You’d forgotten that Kevin isn’t one of you after all. That he doesn’t understand Chris-speak.

“We’re making it official,” you tell him, quietly. “The break-up.”

“So Chris finally caved?” he asks, surprised. “I really didn’t think he would.”

“It’s been three years, dude,” you remind him. “He had to move on sometime. He just needed to find something else to be.”

“So how are you feeling?” he asks next.

“I’m okay,” you say.

“You’re sure?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” you return. “This is what I wanted, remember?”

He looks at you somberly. “Then why haven’t _you_ moved on?” he asks, quietly. “Why haven’t _you_ found something else to be?”

Three years ago if anyone had suggested you’d have a Backstreet Boy for your best friend you’d have asked him what he’d been smoking. Now you’re just grateful you don’t have to do this alone. The irony of that doesn’t escape you. Someday you may try putting that into a song.

“I’m doing okay,” you say again, trying not to sound defensive. “My album’s doing okay, and the second one’s coming along.”

“You still love him,” he says.

You don’t deny it. “Of course I do,” you say, “but that was never the point. The point was he never loved _me._ ”

Kevin shakes his head. “You’re wrong,” he says, quietly. “He adored you. Everyone could see it.”

“Five years,” you remind him. “You said yourself, we were together for five years. You think I didn’t want to believe he loved me?” You reach for your wine glass, taking a long sip. “You know how I realized he didn’t really love me?” you ask him, softly, seriously. “It was when Briahna was born. He held her and he smiled and I knew. I always thought he had a beautiful smile, you know? But I’d never seen him look like that. He’d never smiled at me like that.”

“You don’t know that,” he protests again.

“You know what he told me when I told him I wanted to break up?” you continue. “He said ‘okay.’ That’s it. No protestations, no questions, just ‘okay.’ When Lance asked him if he was okay with it he said he always knew it was a matter of time anyway. He said the same thing when I told them I wanted to quit the band. He didn’t even try to stop me.”

“And you wanted him to,” Kevin says. “It was a test and he failed spectacularly.”

“No,” you say. “It was me. It wasn’t his fault. I was the one who...”

“Who what?”

“It was my fault,” you say again. “Don’t you see? He never promised me anything. I thought I was different from all those women, that I was special, but I wasn't. It wasn't his fault he didn't love me. He gave me what he could, he did his best, and I didn’t think it was enough. And when I couldn’t take it anymore I just left. I walked away. I didn’t talk to them. I kept quiet for months, didn’t tell them why I was so unhappy, I didn’t explain. I just... I just left.” You take a deep breath. “It was petty and stupid and _I_ failed miserably. It was my fault, don’t you understand? My fault. I forced them, forced _him_ to give me what I wanted, and when it didn’t make me happy, when I hurt, I just walked away. I didn’t care what happened to the group, didn’t care about hurting them, about what they wanted. I threw away everything, everything we had worked so hard for, hurt my friends. I hated Joey for not making me any promises when I couldn’t, _didn’t_ keep the one _I_ made. I broke my promise. To Chris. To all of them. I broke it, and for what? Because –”

“Because you were hurt,” Kevin supplies, quietly. “Because you were angry, and you didn’t know how to fight.” He laughs, suddenly. “None of you do, really.”

You don’t know if it’s only the wine, if it was the stress of dealing with everything that came rushing back to life since you got that telegram, but your anger is sudden, fire-hot. “You can say that?” you demand harshly, insulted. “Of all people? You know how hard we fought, you were one of those we did.” You’re prepared to remind him that, that things weren’t always this way. It might be all nice and friendly now, you and Kevin drinking wine and sharing reminiscences of a past faded and dull, but some of those memories had cut like knives when they were fresh. You’re ready to prove it again if he’s forgotten.

He smiles at you, minutely. “Oh, I’m not casting aspersions at your courage or fortitude, man. I’m just saying that Backstreet and *NSYNC, whatever people say, whatever may have been implied in the past, aren’t the same. Not our music, not our lives, not even in the way we fight our battles. Us, we’re used to fighting. We fight everyone and everything, including ourselves, including each other. We can do that. That’s one advantage we got over you. That’s one thing we got you guys don’t.”

“We can fight,” you insist, tightly.

He smiled. “We watch MTV, dude, we know your story. The five of you against the world and you won. But that’s exactly what I mean. As a group, maybe even as individuals, you’ve proven you can stand against anyone and everyone else.” He takes a sip of wine, calmly, deliberately. “Except each other. You don’t know how to fight when it’s each other you’re fighting.”

You can’t reply, because you suspect that it’s true.

“You were always so happy together,” he continues. “It was one of the things that was always so annoying about your group. You were always so happy. It’s like no matter how unhappy you were individually, what problems you were facing. When you were together you were happy. Even in Germany, when things were so miserable, when you guys were all so tired and worn down and frustrated, somehow, you were still happy. I don’t think you know how to be unhappy together. I'm not saying you were right to leave, and I'm not saying you were wrong. I'm saying you were hurting and I think you left *NSYNC not because you were unhappy per se, but because you didn’t know how to be unhappy around them, didn’t know how to be that way with them. And in the same vein, I think that’s why they gave up, one by one. Because they didn’t know how to be unhappy and still be *NSYNC, either. They didn’t know how to fight because it was you.” He smiled, suddenly, as if he’d just made a discovery, had a realization. “Don’t you see? You all think the others gave up. You all think the others should have fought harder, but you couldn’t, you didn’t know how. You have no defenses against each other. You didn’t know how to be unhappy together so you had to be unhappy apart.”

“They’re not unhappy,” you protest. “They’re all wildly successful, bigger than we ever thought we’d be. They’re all doing other things, exploring other areas—“

“Being something else,” agrees Kevin. “Something that wasn’t *NSYNC. But they didn’t really want to be, did they? They just had to. Because they’d didn’t know how to stay and be unhappy, either. So they had to go be something else. And they learned to be happy being other things, being something else, too." He looks at you somberly. “Except you,” he says again. “You didn’t change. You’re still the same. You’re the only one who hasn’t moved on, who hasn’t found something else to be.”

You stay quiet, confused by the things he’s been saying, the quiet whisper of truth echoing after them.

“I think it _was_ a test,” he adds. “Maybe you didn’t know it at the time, but it was. You wanted Joey to fight you, to prove you wrong. To fight _for_ you, to prove to you that he did love you. And it hurt you that he didn't fight, that you think he didn’t or that he never cared to.” The touch on your cheek surprises you because Kevin has never been physically demonstrative, at least not with you. “But maybe he just didn’t know how to, he didn't know how to fight because it was you,” he says, softly. “Or maybe, all this time, he’s been waiting for you to fight for _him_.”

You shake your head. Three years and you’re surprised at how badly you still want to believe that, at how hard you have to fight the hope, the hurt. “He knows I loved him,” you argue.

“Does he? Are you sure?”

“Besides,” you add, “He proposed to Kelly after we broke up. He loves her. He’s going to marry her.”

Kevin grins. “Unless you stop him,” he says, still softly. “Unless you give him a reason not to.”

“I don’t—“

“It’s been three years, JC,” Kevin says, patiently. “You forced your friends to be brave, to find their strength outside of the group, to build their own happiness themselves. I think you owe it to them to give it a shot of your own. To find out for certain, either way, before that door closes on you forever.”

You’re totally confused now. All this time Kevin has been the only one who’s never pushed you, who’s never made you feel like you stupidly threw your life away. You asked him to be with you now because you needed someone to help you be strong. You don’t understand why after all this time he's suddenly pushing you back to them. You don’t understand any of it.

“Why are you doing this?” you whisper. “All these months... I couldn’t have ever done this without you, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

His gaze is wistful, but his grin is bright. “Dude,” he says, “I’m a Backstreet Boy. We’re all about the love.”

 

 

VII.

Three years and a hundred thousand memories still dodge your every step, shadow your every move. You walked away, but they followed. You gave up, but they didn’t let go.

You’ve never let go. You realize this suddenly. Three years and you learned to school your face so that it shows nothing, so that people see only the practiced smile, the serene exterior, but under the surface you’re still screaming.

You’ve always loved Joey. Always. Maybe it was too late, maybe you waited too long, but you’re here now. If *NSYNC is going to end anyway, if you’re never going to see each other ever again, you might as risk losing everything and tell him the truth.

What the hell did your pride matter anyway, compared to that?

Kevin was right. Maybe you didn’t know it at the time, but you were testing Joey. How stupid. You were the one who was in love with him. Unconditionally, you always thought. You should have been content to just do be there, do that. If anyone had to prove anything, it should have been you. If anyone should have done any begging, it should have been you, as well.

You suspect you’re going to be doing that, soon.

Joey isn’t at his house. The housekeeper tells you he hasn’t been there all night, that he left early in the evening after receiving a phone call. You think about calling Chris to ask if he knows where Joey is, but you’re not at all confident he won’t slam the phone down on you so you just drive to his house. Maybe it would be too late with Chris, too, but you stand to lose everything anyway.

It’s a little funny how much courage that thought suddenly gives you.

When you get near Chris’ house you hear shouting, screaming, things being thrown around. You freak out at the possibilities and run, surprised you still know the access codes to his gate and his front door, heading straight to his back porch, to the source of the noise.

On the porch, you find Chris seated on a deck chair, trying to remain calm, while Joey continues to scream in his face.

“You promised me, goddamn it!” he keeps shouting. “You promised me! You said you wouldn’t—”

“What’s happening here?” you demand, worriedly. “Chris? Joe? Why are you—?”

They whirl towards the direction of your voice and looking stunned to see you.

“You!” Joey snarls, his face livid. “You don’t get to do this, do you understand? You promised. You _promised._ ”

You look to Chris in confusion. “What’s happening?” you ask again. “What is he talking about?”

“Joe, calm down,” Chris says, putting a soothing hand on Joey’s arm, ignoring you for the moment. “Look, JC’s here now. We can all talk about it. We can—”

Joey slaps the hand away. You’ve never seen him this mad before. When he almost stumbles, you realize he’s been drinking, that he’s drunk, and it’s not a happy buzz.

“Joey?” you say, “what’s the matter, babe?” The endearment slips out easily, without your knowing, and you see him visibly flinch. Then he slumps down to the patio, holding his head in his hands, groaning aloud.

You run to him, feeling his clammy skin. “Tell me you haven’t been letting him do this,” you glare at Chris. “You know he gets migraines when he drinks too much.” Although, of course, ‘too much’ is a relative term when it came to Joey. He can usually drink anyone under the table, but even he had his limits.

“He was drunk when he came here,” Chris says, quietly. “The first time it’s happened. You know he stopped partying so much when Bree was born.” He looks at you, his face expressionless. “I told him I’d sent you the telegram.”

You sit beside Joey, taking his hand. “Can you put on some coffee?” you ask Chris.

He nods, and leaves you alone with Joey.

You find yourself putting an arm around Joey, stroking his hair, murmuring soothing nonsense noises. Three years and you body still does this automatically, even without a conscious decision.

Joey opens his eyes to look at you, like he’d forgotten you were there. “Where did you go?” he asks “Why didn’t you come back this time?”

“This time?” you repeat, confused. This worried you a little. Joey has always been lucid when drunk, even if he never remembered the conversations in the morning and have a tendency to get headaches and pass out. “What do you mean?”

“You came back. Before,” he explains, haltingly. “When... When MMC got cancelled, remember? You left then, too, and I didn’t know how to stop you. I thought I’d never see you again and I couldn’t do anything about it. But you came back. Why didn’t you come back this time?”

“I did,” you answer, softly. “I’m here now.”

He blinks at you, and you’re a little taken aback by the hurt you see there. “Why did you take so long? I was waiting for you.”

His words confuse you but he’s saying things you’ve always wanted to hear. You wish he wasn't drunk. You wish you could just believe him.

“Were you really?” you ask. “But you have a fiancée,” you say, softly, calmly, like it wasn’t killing you. “You’re marrying Kelly.”

He closed his eyes, slumping down, putting his head in your lap, like it’s always been there, like he’s still used to it being there to rest on. “Bree,” he says, shaking his head, his voice hoarse. “I couldn’t... I couldn’t fall apart. Because I had a daughter. She needed me, even if you didn’t.” He looks up at you accusingly. “You were gone... and Kel... she wanted to marry me, and I... I didn’t have a reason not to marry her anymore. You were gone. You left.” He stops, deflated, and you feel more weight resting, pressing down on you. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, but don’t know what to add to that.

“I didn’t know,” he continues, after a few moments of silence “ I don’t know what happened. We didn’t fight, we didn’t argue. You just... you just said it was over, you went away, and I didn’t know how to bring you back. I didn’t know how to reach you. I don’t know what I did that made you not want me anymore.”

The rising pressure in your chest is becoming unbearable. You feel it climbing up your throat, into your eyes.

“You didn’t do anything,” you tell him, huskily. “It was my fault. I was... I was being stupid. And selfish.“

“I didn’t know how to stop you,” he says again.

Chris comes back with the coffee, and you make Joey sit up and drink a cup. Joey seems confused again.

“C... You’re here. Did Chris call you? Did you come here to see Chris?”

“No” you answer, softly, aware that Chris was standing just a few feet away, listening. “I went to your house to see you but you weren’t there. I came here to ask Chris if he knew where you were.”

He inclines his head a little, curiously, a little suspiciously. “You came to see me?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I had something to ask you.”

“What?”

“I’ll ask you tomorrow,” you tell him, because you suspect you already know the answer anyway. Kevin was right about that, too. You _could_ see it in Joey’s face. Maybe there really was some truth to there being no place like home, about how sometimes you had to go away, lose sight of it, so you could see it clearly once more. “You need to rest now, okay?”

“You’ll be here tomorrow?” he asks, seeking reassurance of the fact.

“Yes.”

His eyes cloud over a little. “For the announcement,” he says, as if he just remembered. “That’s why you came.”

“Yes,” you say again. You want going to explain that that was what had brought you to Orlando, but not to Chris’ house, but he interrupts you, flinging himself back down to your lap, grabbing you around the waist and burrowing his face against your legs like a child throwing himself against his mother’s lap to cry.

“I don’t want to break up,” he tells you, almost sulkily. “I don’t want us to break up.”

You feel the tears starting, the smile breaking through. “You don’t?” you ask, very softly.

“I fucked up,” he murmurs into your lap. “I know that. Bree... I knew I didn’t have any right to ask you anything after that. So I didn’t ask. I never asked you to stay. I never asked you not to go, not if that was what you wanted. But I thought... ”

“You thought?”

“I thought that, even if I couldn’t, they’d bring you back. I made Chris promise... He trails off, and you knew he’d fallen asleep from the way he relaxed against you.

“You made Chris promise what?” you ask, looking at Chris, who was still watching the two of you, his face carefully blank.

“You suck, Chasez,” he answers, careful not to raise his voice and disturb Joey. “What are you doing here?”

“I said already,” you return. “I needed to talk to Joey.”

”What, after three years you suddenly get the urge? After three years of avoiding him, after three years of making sure we knew you didn’t want us or need us, after we finally give up, you’re here?”

“Something like that,” you say. You’re not trying to be flippant, but you’re not quite sure how to explain, either. “You sent me that telegram,” you remind him. “You must’ve known I’d come.”

“To Orlando,” he agrees. “Maybe even to the compound. But not to our houses. Why now? Why after all this time?”

“It’s a little hard to explain,” you begin, but he interrupts.

“Hard?” he snarls. “You decided you didn’t want to be here and so you left and you never looked back. That wasn’t hard. You know what’s hard? It’s been three fucking years. Staying here and letting it happen because I couldn’t stop it, I didn’t have any way of stopping it. And now after three fucking years, I have to sit and watch you fuck with Joey’s head again, with his heart, in my goddamn house. I’m asking you again, why are you here?”

You look at him straight in the eye. “Because it was my last chance and I got scared of losing him forever.”

He sneers at you, looking disgusted. “Lance was right wasn’t he? You _were_ playing games.”

“I wasn’t,” you say, but not very vehemently. “At least not deliberately.”

Joey stirs, opening his eyes. He’s looking less confused, but the dazed look had returned to his eyes. No, not dazed, you think. _Awed._

“You really are, here,” he says, wonderingly. “I thought... ” He looked at Chris, suddenly, smiling brilliantly. “Dude, I knew you’d keep your promise. I’ma totally going to vote for you.”

He fell back asleep, still smiling, still holding your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you say, after a while.

Chris sighs. “For what?” he asks. “Because, seriously, your tab’s up to about forty-six billion by now.”

“For running away and not trying to explain," you say. "For lying. For breaking my promise not to let what happened between me and Joey affect the group.”

“You remember that?” he asks, a little surprised. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“I didn’t," you confess. "I just refused to remember. It was easier that way." You grin, ruefully. “It was a chickenshit thing to do. I’m sorry.”

You think you see him almost smile. “Joey remembered that, too,” Chris says. “That day you said you were leaving, he reminded us of that promise.”

“He did?” you ask, curious. “Why didn’t he—”

“He said we could use it to get you back.”

“What?”

“He said you never made each other promises. That you started out so young, and you’d never had another boyfriend, he didn’t think, didn’t want, to limit you like that. So he didn’t ask for anything from you. And then, after Bree, after he hurt you so badly, he didn’t think he would ever have the right, to ask for one. That’s why he never tried to stop your or went after you. He didn’t think he had any hold on you. But he remembered that promise you made us. He said you never promised him anything, but you promised _us._ He kept saying _we_ could make you come back. _We_ had a hold on you.”

“You do,” you say, quietly. "And not just because of that promise."

“That’s why he was so angry,” Chris continues. “About the announcement. About us giving up. He made us promise we wouldn’t agree to being broken up. He made us promise we’d get you back. He didn’t understand why we couldn’t.”

“I was wrong," you tell him. "I should have talked to you guys. I should have kept my promise.”

“You promised Lance and Justin as well,” he points out. “You hurt them, too.”

“I plan to make things right with them, too.”

He shakes his head, confusion apparent. “Why are you here, JC?” he asks again. “You have to know it’s too late.”

“Is it?” You want to smile. It’s a totally inappropriate response but you want to laugh because you know for certain that it’s not.

“Yes.” Chris sounds positive, adamant.

“For me and Joey?" you ask, “or for *NSYNC?”

“For both.”

You don’t believe him. You realize that he wouldn’t have sent you that telegram, you wouldn’t be here, in Chris’ house, wiping down Joey, Chris _letting_ you, if that was true.

That’s the thing about family, you think. Whatever happens, no matter how much you hurt each other, you can always come home.

“I’ll have to change your mind, then,” you tell him, lightly.

“Humph,” he snorts. “Yeah, that’ll happen.”

You do smile then, you can’t help it. You know that snort too well. That was his ‘convince me’ snort. And you plan to. “You forget,” you tell him, calmly, “that when it comes down to pure stubborn will, I can outlast all of you. I’ve already proven it. So you might as well save yourself the aggravation and forgive me now.”

“What?!” he sputters, incredulously. “You must be kidding.”

“It’s been three years,” you remind him, serenely. “How long do you think I can last for something I actually _really_ want?”

“I don’t know,” he says, “how long can you?” You know it’s a question, not a challenge.

“Infinity good enough for you?”

 

 

VIII.

The announcement *NSYNC makes is a comeback tour in the fall, a new album in the spring. And just for fun, you’re all going to guest in Justin’s next concert.

Three years and it’s like it all never happened. Your voices still fit, still blend and harmonize like nobody’s business. When you look over, you see Joey’s singing the song to _you_. You look at him and sing it right back.

After the concert, you receive a bouquet of roses from Kevin. The card reads: ‘FYI, I fully intend to start hating you again.’

You grin. So much for that scandalous three-way, you think. Oh well.

You like him so much better as a friend anyway.

You're not worried. You've learned your lesson about leaving people behind. You don't intend to ever do it again.

Or let anyone do it to you.

Three years and you remember everything – the way Joey nuzzles your neck, tickling you with his beard, making you laugh. You remember that same beard scrapping over your skin, making you breathless. You remember the way he always inhales sharply when you take your shirt off, as if the sight overwhelms him, every single time, as if what you’re unveiling is a treasure, or a mystery. You remember how, when you touch him, he can’t help but smile.

Three years later and everything is exactly the same. Except this time, there are strings. There are promises. There’s a future.

Three years and Joey still fits into that hollow on your bed, still fits into your life. You still love all of them so much you can't try to describe it without embarrassing them and yourself. You’re never going to hear the end of this, you think, they’re never going to let you live this down. Justin will bring it up each time he wants something, wants you to drop your plans and go clubbing or wants you to listen to something he’s working on. Lance will use it to get your vote when it’s Chris and Justin versus Lance and Joey because Lance isn’t above blackmail to get what he wants. And Chris! You’re going to be buying his drinks for a year at least, just to shut him up.

Next time, they’ll all say, you should listen when they tell you something. Next time you should just go along with whatever they want you to do.

Okay, you tell them, even though you know there’ll never be a next time. You have a lot of nos to make up for.

Joey won’t ever mention it, though. He’ll say, only, that you came home in the end, and that is what matters. He’ll only say he’s glad you’re here. He’ll just smile.

And you’ll never doubt again.

Three years. In the old stories, every journey, every task, every trial, for some reason or another, always took a thousand and one days. One thousand and one nights.

A thousand and one nights, a thousand and one stories. All different, but they all always ended the same.

It took you a while, but you finally got there, you finally found your way, claimed your love, made it home. You got your happy ending.

 _Three years._ That phrase used to echo in your ears like a curse.

Now it sounds almost like a song.

 

 

 

(c) JCSA / 2003


End file.
